more money, more problems

The raise I got a couple months ago only made my financial situation worse. Enamoured by the larger number on my paychecks, I figured I could finally be comfortable and do whatever the fuck I wanted to do, like go to Los Angeles to see the Mets play the Dodgers. Of course, I had stars in my eyes, and the higher salary just about covers the rising cost of my living expenses. In short, as of right now, though I'm making more money than I ever have in my life, I have $9 in my bank account.

Whatever.

I'm late on a couple credit cards, but I'll get through the weekend. I worry about money all the time, only because I'm a fucking moron and think that I'm entitled to have a good time because I'm young and single and American. These are all lies of course. If I was young and single and American and rich, I could have all the fun I want, but as it stands now, I'm still hand to mouth, and sometimes, my hand is empty by the time it gets there...which is kinda poetic in a non-poetic way.

I went out tonight because the students are back in town and it's nice to see new faces, even though they're all far too young to think I'm cool. I also have beer stamps at many of the local bars, so I can drink for free.

I'm glad I went out, because my house is empty this weekend, and I don't do well living by myself. I couldnt' really afford food so I bought a couple of slices of pizza while I was bar hopping. It's not making much of a difference now, but I'm sure it will pay dividends in the morning. It had damn fucking well better.

First, I hit up the college meat market, because they take credit card and I still had some limit left. I ordered a rum and coke and got the change back so I could leave tips elsewhere. From there, I ended up at meathead tavern because of my beer stamps. I met up with some people from work there--most of whom had played a benefit show for a local charity. I wanted to go, but it cost 10 bucks to get in.

I hate meathead tavern, but it's hard to complain too much when the drinks are free. The jukebox kinda sucks, unless you live in a snowboarding video, but occasionally some good shit will play, like some old Metallica or something. Even that's starting to grate on my nerves, but seriously, I freak out everytime I hear "Master of Puppets" and I don't care who knows it.

After there, I ended up at the local watering hole where I met up with another coworker for last call. She told me I was yelling about something, but I really hadn't had much to eat today except for a couple slices of pizza and a smoothie. The smoothie was really good.

I'm just glad I'm home now and realized that my cable's InDemand service offers music. Fucking good music too. For no additional cost, I've already watched the "Blue Orchid" by The White Stripes, a lengthy excerpt from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs live DVD, and, right now, a live performance from The Pixies when Black Francis was still all young and thin and stuff and had a full head of hair. They sound unbelievable and it's not just because I'm drunk. I keep yelling at the TV screen for them to play "Gigantic." I really, really hope they do.

the whole truth. and nothing but...

I had jury duty today. I don't mind serving jury duty. It's kinda like a really boring vacation. You get a day off of work, get to read a book and get a few bucks for your trouble (or hardship, which seemed to be the prefered nomenclature). I've served a couple times and never even got called to a panel, so, of course, I was in the first group called.

Entering a courtroom was a much more awe inspiring experience than I thought it would be. Maybe because it looked so much like the ones I'd seen on television. It was like entering an episode of Law & Order--with the late, great Jerry Orbach and everything. I don't know why the courtroom was so intimidating; maybe it was all the wood. The room wasn't very big as far as width and length, but it was very tall, and huge wood panels covered the walls. Maybe it was because I'd just gotten three hours sleep, but I was kinda freaked.

The last time I'd been in front of a judge was at a courtroom at the DMV to contest an equipment ticket I'd gotten for a busted tail light. According to New York law, I think (at least at the time), as long as you got it fixed within 24 hours, you could get the ticket thrown out without paying it. You just had to provide a receipt. I did get it fixed, however, I did so through the fabled "all Italian network," meaning, my cousin sent me to this guy who ran a junkyard, who gave me a part and charged me with simply telling my cousin "he said hello" and then my friend replaced the busted tail lights. A receipt magically appeared stating that I had indeed taken care of the tail lights in the prescribed 24-hour period, and, when I presented said evidence to the cantankerous, and unfortunately observant judge, I may or may not have been entirely forthcoming with information regarding my knowledge as to why whoever made up this magical receipt overcharged me for tax. When asked, I replied, "I dunno," and the ticket was thrown out.

Today, the judge came out and thanked us profusely and reminded us that we are the ones who make the wheels of justice turn and how some founding father said that the right to serve on a jury was more important even than the right to vote and yadda yadda. I do agree. I think it's important. I always reply and show up when called, I just wish they could chop down the ceremony some. The judge informed us that the case we were called on to hear was a one-day case. The whole thing would be heard and done with next Tuesday, and I figured if I was going to be called to serve on a jury, this would be the one to do so, because I have so much work to do and hard deadlines, that having to take a lot of time off would be disasterous. The court clerk read a list of names to enter the jurors box, and I was one of them.

Turned out the case was for a misdemeanor, minor in possession of alcohol--a common charge in this town. Sitting in the jurors box, I became extremely fascinated with the entire process. It was certainly a lot better than sitting in the waiting room and counting the fibers in the industrial carpet. I kept watching the court reporter as she typed away on the little ticker tape machine thing and stared off into space. She looked so stoic. I kept thinking of making a face at her or some ridiculous hand gesture just to see if she would react, but y'know, I didn't.

After a bunch of general questions, we began voir dire. The defense attorney asked questions of a few people, myself included because I'd mentioned I was a writer/editor. He asked a couple of specifics and seemed satisfied with the answers. He was a short, bulbous fat man, balding, and wearing round, wire-framed glasses at the edge of his nose. He looked at people with his mouth agape and his head tilted back and to the side, looking down his nose through his glasses. I liked him immediately. The prosecutor then took his stab at voir dire and launched into a speech much like the intro speech the judge gave us. It's our duty, we know it's a hardship, so on and so forth...impartiality, blah blah. The defense attorney objected.

Sustained!

Prosecutor went off on another tangent.

Objection! Sustained!

This was getting exciting. The prosecutor finally got to the point, but first made a really snide comment to the defense attorney, to which another objection was posed to the judge and the judge got all snippy with the prosecutor. I almost giggled. I really wanted to get on this jury now.

Voir dire ended, and we were given a mid-morning recess. When we returned, the judge told us that it was now time for the attorneys to excuse members of the jury that they thought were gonna fuck up their cases something awful. The judge informed us that it wasn't us, it was them, and that he was sure we'd be happy with another jury sometime because we were just wonderful people, but this was all just moving too fast and we need me time. Yeah. And that we shouldn't take being excused as an attack on our integrity.

I was the first juror excused. By the prosecution. And fuck yeah I took it personally. Of course, I was probably excused because of my affiliation with a local publication whose primary sponsors are local bars and also publishes pictures of sexy and not so sexy youths engaging in unbridled drunken debauchery, but still. It hurt, yo.

Justice truly is blind, and cold hearted, too.

Bitch.

...I didn't mean it baby, you know I love you.

the far too fresh feeling

I'm starting to get the aching suspicion that I'm wearing anti-perspirent that's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman. I ran out of roll-on a couple days ago, but I didn't fear because there was a spare in my medicine cabinet. It had been left there, unused, I assume by a previous roommate. It was the same brand as the last one I had, so I thought everything was cool. Now, I notice that the more I sweat, the more flowery I smell. My nostrils are full of a fresh fragrance, though pleasant, is quite foreign and perhaps better suited for the fairer sex. Perhaps that "it smells like someone's wearing perfume" comment earlier this morning really did have something to do with me.

hot off the presses

Someone really got paid to send out this press release. Really.

Diddy Drops The 'P' In Name Change

Sean "P. Diddy" Combs announces today that he will hence forth be known as simply "Diddy". Five letters, one word, period.

(New York, NY) Having sold over 65 million records, won several Grammy's, starred on Broadway in a Tony award winning play, been featured in a Oscar winning motion picture, won The CFDA Designer of the Year award and been named by TIME magazine as one of the most influential business men in the world, Diddy feels that the "P" is no longer needed and hopes today's announcement helps clarify how he is to be addressed.

"I feel like the "P" is getting in the way of me and the public. From now on I will simply go by "Diddy" said Diddy.

Diddy has adapted his name before as he has grown as an artist, businessman and human being; however, Diddy is now confident that this will be the final name that he will use and the name by which he will be remembered by history.

"Martha Stewart recently announced that she was using "M. Diddy" and it is rumored that Katie Couric has asked Matt to call her "K. Diddy," and we all know who is calling himself "W. Diddy" in private" Diddy said.

That doesn't leave many other letters left so Diddy is encouraging others to lay claim to the remaining letters fast. Remember that the letter "P" has been permanently retired in honor of Diddy himself.

pick your poison

On the walk home, I picked up a couple DVD rentals, a six-pack of Moose Drool Brown Ale and three tacos from the new taco truck in my neighborhood. The guy who runs the liquor store is pretty cool. We always talk about stuff and ask how the other is doing. I'm a regular customer; I probably go in at least once a week--sometimes more if I'm really stressed. Usually, I'll just buy a 22 of something dark and heavy, carry it home in a brown paper bag, and maybe get halfway through before I fall asleep on the couch for an hour or so. I didn't feel like multiple trips, so I got the six-pack to drink at my leisure. I cracked open one about an hour ago, and I don't think I'm halfway through it yet. I almost just fell asleep on the couch.

There's a liquor store closer to my house, but its beer selection isn't as good as the one I frequent regularly. The one closer to my house does have a taco stand in it though, and its burritos are really good in a disgusting sort of way. I heard the guys who run the stand got busted for selling crystal meth out of it or something. Whatever the problem was has obviously blown over, though because they are still in business.

Tonight, I wasn't sure what to get. I saw a friend of mine, a student, who'd been out of town for the summer, and has just returned because school starts next week. He's not a close friend, but we've hung out at a few parties or whatever; he was a good friend of my old roommate and on the last night we spent at my last house, the three of us polished off a handle of Seagram's VO. I guess he'd spent time in Montana where they make Moose Drool and had brought over a six-pack once. I thoguht it was pretty good. As I perused the many different six-packs in the liquor store's refrigerators, I spotted the Moose Drool and firgured it was as good as any. I hadn't had any in a while. There's so much to choose from there, it's difficult to make a decision.

I brought it up to the counter, and the guy who runs the place said in his non-descript, somewhat Middle Eastern accent, "How are you, my friend. Good choice." I thought so too. I told him that they have one of the best selections of beer in town and that it always takes me a while to decide on something. He mentioned that he was just talking about that with a customer earlier in the day. "I figured out that I have almost 150 different six packs," he boasted. I looked over at the refrigerators and figured that estimate was pretty acurate.

He then told me about a new beer he'd just started carrying. It came in six packs, but for 17.99 a shot. They were all liter bottles, and the beer was imported from Austria. He said that another customer had asked him to carry it, and that the customer said it was very good. The shop owner had almost sold out of it already. "I haven't tried it," he said. "But he says it's very good." The shop owner doesn't seem like the type who drinks; that's probably common for a pusher.

The taco truck, to my surprise, was manned by two blonde white women. It may be stereotypical thinking to expect a couple of Mexicans working a taco truck, but still, if I were to get Chinese food from a place named "Giuseppe's," it would have to come with a pretty lofty recommendation. I was already at the window, though, and I figured I might as well. The tacos were greasy (as should be expected), but palatable. The carne asada was really soft and tender, but the salsa was a bit pasty, though spicy enough. Still, next time I have a hankering for taco stand tacos, I'll prefer to tackle the language barrier with the dudes who run the window at the liquor store.

swim out past the breakers. watch the world die.

I just got back from another trip to Southern California. That's me on the beach. It's actually not a bad photo for an obnoxious self-shot cell phone photo, except that my aim's not so good. I thought I had it all lined up, but I guess the Pacific Ocean's a lot prettier than I am anyway. You may notice that I'm smiling, though, because I was, at that moment, quite happy.

I'm scared to death of the water--going in it that is--but I've always loved the beach and the coast, and I do enjoy standing in the way of the tide and letting it splash over my feet and whatnot. It's a lot more noncommital than actually going into the water. The tide comes in, splashes me for a bit, and then it goes away for a while. Sometimes, on a good day, I'll stand in the same spot until the tide buries my feet in the sand. Today was one of those days.

This picture was taken on a beach in Santa Monica. I'm not sure what the name of the beach was, but it was right of California State Highway 1 (or the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH)). It was a small beach with just a few people that cost four bucks to park at and was surrounded by mountainous terrain. It was beautiful and I could have spent the whole day there if I didn't have to catch a plane back to the sweltering valley later in the day--even though the soles of my feet, always sheltered in socks and shoes, weren't prepared for the hot sand.

After that, we drove up the coast on the PCH through Malibu and the Malibu Canyon. It was pretty and boring and I loved every minute of it. We listened to Dennis Leary's No Cure for Cancer and sang along to "Asshole" twice. I remembered all the words.

It was the shortest and least eventful day of my two day/two night mini tour of Southern Ventura County and the Los Angeles-area, but it was probably my favorite. And that's counting watching the Mets beat the Dodgers 5 - 1 on Saturday.

Los Angeles was an amazing place. Even the poor folks seemed rich. There were many busted ass cars with hot ass rims, but true wealth was sported by those in the yellow cars. Yellow Hummers, yellow Ferraris--I even saw a yellow Lamborghini Diablo in Malibu. Yellow cars are ugly as sin, but they're really easy to notice. Truth be told, though, I didn't spend much time in Los Angeles proper. There was Dodgers Stadium, and after that a trip through East LA on Sunset Blvd to get to Universal City and their frightening outdoor mall called City Walk. We parked in a parking lot cleverly titled Jurassic Parking. No really. We ate at a chain restaurant called Buca Di Beppo, which I feared would carry an Olive Garden-y blandness, but I was happily proven wrong. Their meatballs are a half-pound of meat and sauce and garlic and it took three of us to finish one. All the food was served family style, and for 40 bucks, we fed three people and had leftovers. I was stoked.

I took a picture in front of the Universal Studios globe thing and stared at the large gate to the backlot for 10 minutes before I realized that was the place that they actually filmed the movies at. I watched people play karaoke on the pathway and went into a comic book store that was playing an episode of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I didn't see any celebrities. I really wanted to.

Most of the time was either spent in Simi Valley, which was where they held the Rodney King trial and home to former president Ronald Reagan (I tried not to hold either of these facts against the place) or in the car, zipping around the area's many freeways. We were on the 1, 2, 5, 23, 101 and 118. I don't mind being in the car, and it was cool because each road sign reminded me of a song or a movie: the turn off for Reseda reminded me of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'"; the exit for Encino brough back fond memories of Encino Man, the only watchable Pauly Shore movie.

Today, at the airport, I got delayed for well over an hour, so I spent a good amount of time in the airport bar nearest to my gate. There was a table full of dudes with fresh new 'dos, and I was sure they were in a band, but I couldn't place what band it was. I then had a conversation with the matronly bartender and a blonde woman who must have been a showgirl or something. She was beautiful and wearing shorts that were more like boxer shorts, but shorter and tighter. They--I'm not sure why--wanted my opinion on Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. The Bartender awaited my answer with anticipation and threatened not to refill my rum and coke unless I answered correctly. The Blonde looked on shrewdly. Backed into a corner, I said that Angelina's sexy, but I didn't think it was right for Brad to just break his vows like that (which was an honest opinion of something I don't have an opinion of). The Blonde and the Bartender approved. My drink was refilled, and the Blonde said that she had no idea why she knew so much about celebrity gossip, and the fact that she did kinda bothered her.

I want to go back. Two days in LA is like half a rail of coke--not that I've ever done coke, but I'd imagine it'd be something like that. And since we're talking about LA, a cocaine reference seems totally applicable. I need to go back and see the whole thing, especially because I didn't have time to get on The Price is Right or take a picture of Godzilla's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

you want a fresh one?

Bison's decade-long dominance over ol' J here has fallen on rough times. I served that sucka again today, this time with the slow-moving, but heavy-fisted Ken. Ken seems like a nice chap. After doing some complex judo throw to a beleaguered and dazed Bison, Ken was joined by his girlfriend Eliza, who was a little squiggle of a thing with a good head of blonde hair. She ran to his arms. Ken exclaimed his joy that they could finally be together. They embraced, and were instantly married in a small ceremony. I wish them both the best.

settling an old score

I can't even begin to imagine the number of hours I've put into Street Fighter II during the course of my lifetime. Both at the arcade and on someone's Super Nintendo, I've mashed buttons with the fervor of a rat trained to ring a certain bell at a certain time to get rewarded with a tiny cube of cheese. But I've never defeated M. Bison.

I'm not talking about all the variations of Street Figher II like the turbo version or the extreme version or whatever others there were. I'm talking the original OG version that only had like 10 characters you could play and then three more would appear who you couldn't play, but had to beat the shit out of.

I still don't know what the game was about. There seemed to be some kind of story going on. I guess the 10 or so characters all had a beef with Bison, and from what I've been able to surmise, as I haven't read any of the manga or seen the anime, or the crappy-ass American live action movie, this Bison character wasn't the nicest of guys. I do know he held up in Thailand with his buddy Sagat, and I think it's safe to assume they were transporting or somehow manufacturing illicit substances. And from his attire, I think it's also safe to assume that Bison was some sort of "general gone rogue" and had a whole bunch of military might behind him, and since he weilded such immence force of numbers, the local goverment couldn't do anything about it, so a group of scorned individuals had to take matters into their own hands to mete out vigilante justice. The only thing that doesn't make sense is why this group decided to battle each other on their way to whooping Bison's ass instead of teaming up into one mighty force of elite warriors to crumble this villain's corrupt empire.

So I'd been working for 800 days straight, and after sending the magazine on Sunday, we had another magazine to send by Tuesday. We sent it around 6pm on Tuesday, but I still had unfinished business. My office had recently acquired a standup OG arcade version of Street Fighter II, which had been serving as a tension-breaking / procastination-enabling device over the long hours of work we'd been slogging through. With work behind me, I stood at the machine with a clear sense of purpose, and with the help of Chun Li, the strongest woman in the world, I served Bison something fierce with a series of quick flying kicks, tosses and palm thrusts. I dont' remember the last time I'd been so pleased with myself. Ms. Li had avenged the death of her father, and I had closed out a chapter of my life, albeit a pointless chapter. I threw my hands in the air, gave a hearty "woo hoo," then promptly left.

I took Wednesday off. My first day off, I think, since I got back from San Diego. I woke up with a ranging hangover, because my friend and a pregnant bartender tried to kill me. I've been going to this place way outside of the downtown metroplex that's chock-full of precarious townies, old folk and sassy bartenders. The pregnant lady took care of me though. She sent the bar back down the street to get me some Carl's Jr. because I hadn't eaten all day, and the ample supply of Jagermeister she was feeding me had taken its toll. She also gave me water, and I remember vowing, though I hope I didn't say it to her, that I was "a-gonna marry that girl." Of course, someone had already beat me to the punch and gotten to the baby-making, but I believe the vow was more out of thanks for the free booze she was giving me than some cosmic love thing.

dinner in the dark

Finally. We finished the magazine. I'm a nervous wreck that the whole thing's fucked up, but I'm glad I don't have to look at it for a few days (until we get the proofs). Honestly, I don't want to see it ever again.

Afterwards, I went out to dinner with a coworker and an old roommate. We went to Olive Garden. I hate Olive Garden, but I was going for the company more than the food. And work had sentenced me to the downtown area for so long, it was nice to see someplace different. They sat us in the back underneath a fixture that didn't work. The waiter apolgized for the darkness. I didn't really care because I was starving, but honestly, I wondered if they stuck us there because we were all wearing T-shirts with heavy metal bands on them.

The food was as expected. Their sauce is pretty bland, pasta bleh, chicken cutlet parmeggiana kinda like chicken tenders with bland sauce and mozzerella drizzled on top. As long as I remind myself that it's not really Italian food, I'm fine with it. It's edible, that's for sure, and I was so hungry, flavor was more of a side note.

I'm just happy this issue's over and done with. The editing process was even more trying this time around. I'm going to sleepwalk through the next two days and take the rest of the week off. On Friday, I get to go to LA to see a friend and watch the Mets play the Dodgers at Dodgers Stadium.

Over the time we were in production, I've been growing a beard. I was so preoccupied at first that I forgot to shave, like I often do, and then, after a while, I just figured I'd keep it going until we were done. I thought we were going to be done a week ago, so the thing's getting pretty thick. Thing is now, I kinda like it, so I'm not sure if I want to shave it. It's like a face cozy or something. Granted, it's the middle of the summer and it's been fucking hot as hell, but I'm still at a loss as to what to do with my prodigious gruff. Maybe I'll just shave it and grow it back when it's a bit colder out.

more thanks

I'd also like to thank Rasputina, because "Watch TV" is making me all emotional and helping me remember that there is life outside this office. Even if that life kinda sucks, too. Melora Creager told me on the phone that I ask good questions. That's what Melora said. I'm still at work. I'm totally listening to it again.

someone. make me stop working.

Yesterday, I pulled a 25 hour shift. I haven't had a day off in two weeks. I have to come in tomorrow too. My insides are turning to puree, and if those two Advil I popped don't help this headache, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. On the bright side, though, I'd like to thank My Chemical Romance for making the last forty or so minutes of worrysome existence much more bearable. I'm usually not into Hot Topic bands, but I really like these guys for some reason. And their video for "Helena" is a mini goth epic. With dance numbers. Glorious.

Nature 3, Boy Scouts 0

Nature, God or some kind of higher power has ranked the Boy Scouts number one on its hitlist. Check this out. This is the third such incident since mid-July and the second in as many weeks. I'm so glad my parents never sent me off to camp.

the king of the ants

King of the Ants was a pretty good movie that had nothing much to do with ants. It starred some guy I'd never seen before, one of the Baldwins that no one pays any attention to, George Wendt who played Norm in Cheers and Kari Wurhrer, who used to be on that MTV game show Remote Control, and still looks really good.

Ants, however, have taken over my office. They're the harmless little black variety--all diligent and explorative. I hate bugs, but I like ants--the tiny little black ones anyway. I don't like the big mean biting ones that swarm over babies left unattended and eat them. Ants fascinate me because...I don't know why, but they just do. They converge around my desk alot, even though I don't bring food to it, except for the occasional chocolate morsel from my roommate's desk. Everyday for the last week or so, I've found a couple crawling on me, getting lost in my arm hair. I usually take a piece of paper and airlift them to my CD rack. I'm not sure where they go from there. I did kill a bunch by mistake, instinctively swatting at an odd, tickly, crawly feeling on my skin, but I usually feel bad about it. One time, I sat in an area that they were swarming on and was covered with them. I killed a few that time too, but again, I didn't mean to. They just seem so intent on what they're doing and purposeful.

Work is kicking my ass, but I got good news today from my parents that my dog back home made it through his operation okay. I guess the found some lumps on him or something that needed to be removed. They're waiting to hear back about a biopsy, but I guess the vet seemed positive. I miss my dog, even though he used to attack people and stuff. I don't think he really meant it. He just wanted to play, I think.

the beehive

I spent another evening partying with the rich people, and had a good time. Good thing the rich people I hang out with on occasion aren't the typical rich people. Their neighbors hate them because they listen to The Prodigy and have people over and drink a lot. They live on the side of a golf course in a gated community. You have to punch in a code to get to their house. You also can't park anywhere on the street. I parked there anyway. You're allowed to live there, but you certainly can't have any guests, unless they live inside the gate and can walk there. You certainly can't have poor guests.

Why would you want to hang out with poor people anyway?

Eventually the cops were called by the hateful neighbors, which seemed a little excessive. We all got parking tickets, but I was hanging out at a rich person's house, so there was no danger of ending up in jail. Other than that, I had a great time hanging out with the rich folks and chilling out by the pool. Frogs croaked loudly from the golf course. I even took my shoes off and waded my feet in the pool. That's as close to going in a pool as I ever get. I"m not much for swimming or being submerged. It's probably because I don't float. I sink.

We had a really good dinner too. One of the attendees barbecued some fish he just caught a day or two before. I also had salad and garlic bread. It all tasted so good and healthy. I hadn't had a meal like that in quite some time. I haven't felt the urge to cook since I've moved. I've only cooked for myself once since I've been here--a pot roast that turned out really good. Other than that, it's been eating out or drinking my dinner. My roommate and a friend of hers were talking about going to the store and the three of us going in on making dinner for each other. It sounds like a good plan. I'm getting sick of the restaurants in this town. Basically because there are like four of them. I'm wondering what damage all the junk is doing to me, but my friend who's leaving town said that his father was a professional marathon runner and he just had bi-pass surgery. I hate hearing stuff like that.

I spent most of the night on the chaise lounge on the other side of the pool, because the rich people were talking about rich people things. Like diving in the Barrier Reef, owning property, their private boats and things of that nature. That's all well and good. I don't have a problem spending the money they earn. It's just something I can't relate to, sitting their in my Target T-shirt, a tattered pair of Vans and one of my two pairs of shorts.

It was a lot of fun, and they got me good and drunk. I'd spilled my first drink at a party in years, which required me to take a penalty shot of their choosing. It turned out to be some vile substance from Budapest, Hungary, called Unicum. According to that link, it's the national drink of Hungary, which makes me wonder what's going on with Hungarians. At first, the taste was pleasant, sort of like a less-sweet Jagermeister, but then the after taste kicked in--sort of like fruity gasoline that had been left out in the sun too long. It didn't sit well with my belly full of fish, rice, salad, bread and rum and cokes; it also didn't sit well with my fragile psyche, which was now trying to process this liquer's blend of "over 40 natural herbs." One of them, I'm assuming, was crack cocaine, because I quickly lost control of my motor functions and mastery of speech volume.

A van came and took us away, and not a moment too soon, either. Good thing it was a taxi cab that took us back to the safety of home, where a bag of Rold Gold pretzels and bottled water were waiting.

tests are lame

But since two of my three readers were interested...I guess I don't have a choice:

the Cutting Edge (60% dark, 43% spontaneous, 22% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't in and of themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 68% on dark You scored higher than 62% on spontaneous You scored higher than 18% on vulgar

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating

you know how i hate good byes, or you might know if you actually knew me

Anna,

So. You did it. Honestly, I was pissed at Nathan for most of the episode. That whole "I can sure as hell talk to moms" thing made him seem kinda slimy.

And then, there were the dates. When you were all a-flutter with the whole "My heart's pounding in my chest" thing after your date with Rocky, I thought for sure that dumpy, poetry-writing Nathan was toast. I used to write poetry, too, you know. A couple of my college professors thought I was pretty good, but they added that I didn't know what my best work was. The stuff I submitted wasn't always as good as the stuff I didn't show them. I guess that's why the world needs editors. Maybe that's why I became one. I used to read that shit to women, too. Like over the phone and shit. Who does that? I never really wrote any about anyone in particular, but I'd be a liar if I didn't say that some of them were inspired by specific people, at least in part.

Most of them were inspired by marijuana, but I was never able to write them while I was high. I waited till the next morning, or while sitting around in the college cafeteria, or maybe sitting on my stoop where I'd watch all the sexy business women walk by when they returned from a long day of work in the city.

Anyway, then came Nathan, and I kept shouting at the screen how he totally fumbled the ball. He looked desperate and out of his league, and I even figured you'd be crazy to choose this simpering imbecile over that other dude.

But then the two of you got to the bungalow, and Nathan proved that he's a clutch performer, giving you his weird kid speech. Very moving. But that's when you totally elevated the game with your "I was in a catholic girls school" and "everyone thought I was weird and awkward" and "now I'm all fuck everyone else because I kick as and I'm empowered." Damn girl.

Then you went ahead and actually picked the Average Joe, though it seemed more like a "I think that Rocky guy's gonna fuck whatever he wants behind my back and bring home some kind of nasty VD" kinda thing, than a "God mumbling and insecurity really turns me on" kinda thing. Still, I got the same feeling I get when I watch the end of Rudy and lil' Sean Astin gets in for two plays and sacks the quarterback and Charles S. Dutton gives that intense look and does the quiet slow clap by himself, because The Man totally fucked him over, and it always compells me to jump out of my seat and scream "RUDEEEE RUDEEE!!!" It's a good thing the house was empty. And it's a good thing I can't find my copy of Rudy.

Well, I guess that's it. I hope "taking it slow" works for the two of you, and if it doesn't, well, I told you you should have picked me.

Seething with good tidings and crippling jealousy,

-J.

summerfest

I'm sick of the son and heat. I'm sick of my skin feeling like a damp sponge. I hate the stiffling pressure of the air. It's not going to rain until November. It seems like forever away.

After Average Joe--unfortunately, the season ends tomorrow, and though tonight was full of drama, my final missive to Anna will have to wait one more day--it was time to go drink with the women's soccer team my roommate plays on. I had to stay at work until about 7:30pm, so I could get home in time for my show, of course, so I missed the game, but I was happy to hear that they won 10-2 in my absence. Maybe I'm a bad luck charm for them or something.

I hadn't eaten though, not since lunch, and the heat caused me to make short work of those little rum and cokes in the tiny little glasses. Sure, I like the alcohol, but it was the ice that I was after, and I emptied each glass trying to cool down.

After that, we were off to another bar, where the spicy bean from my friend's bloody Mary nearly set my stomach to explode. I don't understand how or why people drink those things. I understand they have some witch-doctor-like medicinal quality, but that hardly seems worth the effort. It's like a liquified salad with hot sauce and vodka. But I do like watching people make them. Our bartender, one of my favorites in town, fixes them up real good. I always marvel at the bizarre mixture of ingredients. It serves as proof that human beings are capable of just about anything. Worcestershire sauce in a cocktail? Whodathunkit?

mixed blessings

Though it got off to a somewhat shaky start, this Monday turned out to be a very pleasant surprise. The deadline we thought we were on turned out to be three days away, so instead of slaving in the morning, we instead went to breakfast, which is one of my favorite luxuries. I had eggs and hashbrowns and a cattlesteak burger (that's what it said it was) and an English muffin. I splashed it with some Tapatio and life was good. So good that I may have found my calling in life, but I'll let that idea brew for a while. It's easy to make rash decisions with a full stomach.

The rest of the day kept me more than enough busy, but gladly uneventful, though I was told that I'd pissed off someone at a PR firm, though really, the whole situation wasn't my fault. I'm sure the situation will be easily remedied, and I won't lose any sleep if it's not.

After staying late and going out to dinner, I returned home to see that my Rasputina CD, A Radical Recital, had come in the mail from CD Baby. I read the note attached and CD Baby said the next time I ordered a CD, they'd send me a second one free. I felt all warm and fuzzy. It's nice getting mail, especially when it's not bills, and especially when it's a CD from a dope-ass band. I can't wait to hear it.

Boring as fuck, I know, but sometimes boredom can be comforting.

monday morning

Waking up was a difficult proposition. I set my alarm for an hour earlier than usual, not so I could start the day early, but so I could start it on time. The strategy worked, but my room smells like dog--I let the roommate's pooch crash on my floor last night. He was stoked, but since he took his sweet time shuffling into my room, a giant moth got in, enamored by my television set. I used a plastic cup and the instruction booklet from a video game to safely escort him back out into nature, where he belongs. Sorry, buddy. The television's mine.

down the rabbit hole

I Left Most of My Wallet in San Diego part two part two.

It's probably impossible to explain the sheer joy I encountered when entering the San Diego Comic-Con for the first time. As soon as I crossed the threshold and entered the floor, I saw a dude dressed up as a giant robot gorilla and I immediately doubled over and started laughing.

I've been to plenty of comic book conventions before, but they were mostly held in church basements, and while there were some notable geek heroes strewn about doing signings--like Lou Ferrigno from the Hulk TV show or the guy who played Enos in Dukes of Hazzard, who was super cool by the way--but mostly, the floor was dominated by long boxes and vendors plying graded comic books in mylar sleeves and pimple-faced middle-aged dudes screaming things like "how can you say this is near mint when there's a quarter centimeter wrinkle in the top left corner?!"

There are vendors in San Diego, and no shortage of pimple-faced middle-aged dudes, but there are also lights, sounds and people dressed up in all sorts of costumes. There's also a lot of shmoozing, and that's primarily what I was there to do. I shook hands, introduced myself, handed out cards and copies of my magazine. I met people I've worked with for years for the first time who I have only corresponded with via e-mail.

But the floor was huge, and the stimuli was overwhelming. Though I was there primarily for work, I was able to do plenty of geeking and gawking. I had a side mission to search for pieces of Zatanna memorabilia. Zatanna's first appearance--Hawkman #4--is the only Silver Age comic I own. There's clearly nothing to dislike about Zatanna. She's a strapping, tall brunette who wears a top hat, fishnettes and a tuxedo thing and she casts spells by saying stuff backwards. Clearly, though, such a janky character is not a staple in the DC Comics universe. She's usually relegated to guest appearances, one-shots and mini-series. Still, I think because she represents super heroes the way they really are--goofy and gaudy and ridiculous--she's become one of my favorite comic book super heroes, next to Shade the Changing Man. Also, her jankiness means that finding Zatanna-related items is relatively easy and inexpensive, because there's just not that much, and they're not in high demand. I purchased a cute color drawing of her with two other characters from an artist called Jeffrey Moy and another from artist Dan Brereton, and I was very pleased with both. Plus, they both cost me just 15 bucks combined. If anyone wants to buy me the perfect Christmas gift, Zatanna stuff is a sure-fire winner. No pressure.

I was also kinda taken back by the presence of females at this event. However, on further inspection, I realized that most of them were paid to be there. Though there were plenty of young girls dressed up as anime characters or someone from any one of the Final Fantasy games--and one woman looking rather good as the provacative Princess Leia in slave garb--most of the female contingent were either just devastatingly fine show models or women who were selling pictures of themselves naked.

But really, what better way to sell stuff to sweaty fanboys than slapping them upside the sexually frustrated head with gorgeous women. As if Toxic Avenger wasn't enough, Troma also armed their booth with this friendly, tattooed cutie.

My perverse favorites, though, were the two sleek and statuesque models posing for pictures with trembling, sweaty fleshed convention dwellers over at a booth for the new Incredible Hulk video game. They were attracting quite a crowd, and I wasn't immune to their super powers, which were derived from their skimpy and tattered purple skirts, skimpy and tattered cut-off shirts and toned and sculpted rockin' bodies. One of my favorite sights of my two days (next year I'd love to go for the whole thing) was the Hulk girls managing to keep their brilliant smiles while posing with an understandbly stoked, yet rather bulbous, young man shrouded in his Obi-Wan Kenobi costume. You really can't get much better than that.

Well, except for this:

pictures speak louder than words

I Left My Wallet in San Diego part two (part one).





I suppose there'll be more words about the San Diego Comic-Con, but I think this picture kinda says it all. I was walking down one of the main thoroughfares of the convention floor when I spotted two Klingons, a very sexy Mary Jane Watson-Parker (though the picture may not reveal that) and my personal con favorite, lil Spider-Man, who was about 5 feet tall, but looked just super in his tiny costume. Unfortunately, Mrs. Watson-Parker had her eyes closed when I took this picture. She said she was ready. But this is pretty much what the con was like.

cred cafe

The guy who was taking pictures for the interview, also the person who drove me down to the Bay, told me that he'd always been told that Emeryville, CA, was a pit of urban decay--but not exactly in those words. This is where were were to meet the interview subject.

As it turns out, there had been some changes made to Emeryville. Emeryville is now the City of the Future. It's about eight square blocks and it looks like they built the whole thing yesterday. It's hard to explain, and the pictures to the left hardly do it justice. Apparently, Pixar(who brought us Finding Nemo) and Chiron, which I think is working on making human clones or something, swooped into this husk of an East Bay town and, since they were making so much (so much) money, were able to heap tax-deductible capital into the surrounding area and did some serious economic redevelopment.

Apparently, this all went up a couple of weeks ago, and they're still building. I could have eaten off the streets. I was the poorest person in the town, and I think I sent silent alarms everytime I went into a store. There's a really big Ikea there that's got it's own street and parking structure and there's a sparkling shopping complex called Bay Street that even has an Apple Store. And its own parking structure.

But before all that--the wondering of the City of the Future--there was work to do. I got up at 6am--shot right up and took a shower. I was practically responsible, like all grown up. We travelled from the rapidly warming valley to the still foggy and delightfully cool Bay Area, where we found the ultra hip rendevous point, Rudy's Can't Fail Cafe. I was hardly cool enough to be in there, let alone ever hope to work there. It was punk rock-hipster central. All black hair, studded belts and tats. Dude who served me my cup of chai tea looked like he should have called me a pussy for ordering a chai tea. We got there way early, which was nice, because it left me time to prep some more questions and just chill out and not be in the office. I drank my pussy tea. And started a crossword puzzle. And waited.

The interviewee showed up five minutes late, which made it the most on-time in-person interview I'd ever conducted. It went very well. We all basically chatted for 20 minutes, accidentally fell into an interview, and then talked for another 20 minutes. Taking photos were fun. Sometimes my job is fun.

During the course of the interview, he informed us that we were just across the street from Pixar Studios and that the very cafe we were seated in was owned by none other than "the guy from Green Day." He didn't say which. But he didn't have to, because a beautiful--if not barely legal--young blonde woman entered followed by on of the guys from Green Day, bass player Mike Dirnt.

"There he is!" exclaimed the interviewee.

I was at first confused. People look weird when they're on TV or something, but you see them when they're not on TV. They don't glow with that TV kinda light; because they're people, and not light projected on a screen or however it is TV works. But anyway. There's no point to this, except that I thought American Idiot was a really good album. And we got back home and it was way too hot. I went to a soccer game, got drunk and rode a bike...again. I also sweated way, way too much.

on the road. again.

Usually my life isn't that interesting. I spend a good portion of my days as inert as a stone. I gather moss. However, the next few months, I'll be practically jet setting and cosmopolitan. Tomorrow, I have to go down to the city for another interview and photo shoot. This one should be a lot easier--in and out. I even really like the band I'm talking to. The only catch is I have to be awake around 6am. I know people do this all the time. I, however, am not one of those people.

Still, it will be nice to get something done early. Done and out of the way. Then I get to spend the rest of the day in the damp, cool Bay, out of the oppressive valley heat. I don't even want to see our PG&E bill when it comes in. We've been running the central air constantly. My room is the smallest and it's like an icebox. I keep the door closed, the window closed and the ceiling fan on. I have to use blankets, which is good, because I can't sleep without them.

I have to write more about the trip to San Diego, but one of the cooler moments was when I was hanging out with my friends and three-day innkeepers and talking about the different elements that it requires for us to get to sleep. We all agreed that blankets are the most crucial--more for the weight than anything else--and we also agreed that inebriation renders all these elements null and void; under the influence of alcohol, we could fall asleep on hot coals. But that's pretty much where the similarities ended. My list of requirements was pretty severe. I need a cold pillow, warm bed, cold room and some kind of background noise to get to sleep. I keep flannel sheets on my bed year-round. Even now when the temperature creeps toward the boiling point.

I'm not sleepy now. even though I have to get up so early, but I'm hoping this large bottle of 7.7% beer will change things soon. But I'm never going to get to sleep if I keep typing.

obsessive correspondence

Hey, girl.

How you doin'?

I know. I was late. But if it's any consolation, the dinner was really good. It's so damn hot out, I couldn't eat the whole thing; and I kinda filled up on bread. If you're curious, I went to one of my favorite Italian restaurants with my roommate and one of her friends. She knows the chef and he made us a great meal. I had this pasta dish with prosciutto, onions and...some other stuff. All I know is that it was good.

Anyway, I did get home in time to check out the big elimination. I'm glad you had the good sense to eliminate that Monkeyman guy. I was wondering if you were the stereotypical nice girl who fell for assholes. Maybe you are, and I hope Monkeyman will be happy with his Gay Lover.

Well, I guess that's it for now. Way to go on the four finalists. They all seem cool enough, even though I'm not one of them. Sure, y'know, I wasn't a contestant or anything, but still. You should know better.

Sincerely,

J.

being home

I returned from beautiful San Diego to an empty home. My roommate's away for the weekend. I went out for a bit on Saturday night and filled in some coworkers about the trip. I also skipped out of a show early, even though I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret not sticking around for the closing band. For some reason, I couldn't sleep a wink last night and stayed up until 8am before I finally passed out. I didn't wake up until 3:30pm, which is sure to fuck up my work week beyond all recognition. I talked to my parents and felt all homesick, so I watched Dead Like Me for seven hours, which didn't help matters. I'd always do fine until the end of each episode when Georgia starts doing her voiceover spiel about evaluating one's life and how we're all lonely creatures who're just searching for something to grasp on to in this cold and crazy world. I ate a chicken cutlet parm hero and felt all emo. I developed a seven-hour crush on Ellen Muth, even though I really think the poor girl needs to eat an Ultimate Cheeseburger from Jack in the Box. I've had better days.

the sandles, the surfboard and The Shirt

I Left Most of My Wallet in San Diego part one.

I ended up spending one more day in beautiful San Diego than I was supposed to, but it wasn't nearly as enough time as I wanted to. I never got to go to Mexico, but I suppose that gives me a reason to go back to beautiful San Diego.

San Diego should always be prefaced by the word "beautiful," because it gives some scope to the place. I left the triple-digit valley heat behind to find myself nestled in the 72-degree mid-day San Diego sun--beautiful; the America-meets-Mexico look of things set against the backdrop of sandy beaches and the Pacific Ocean--beautiful; every person no matter size, shape or color had this kinda sparkling glow, and they all biked and jogged and pranced about with their similarly glow-y dogs in such a manner that you wondered why anyone would ever consider wanting to live somewhere else in the United States--beautiful. Later on in the trip, I realized that the outside temperature was just as nice, if not nicer, than the interior of my home with the air conditioner on, but I don't have to pay to sit out doors, though, San Diego is so expensive, I'm surprised they haven't figured out a way to do so yet. But as far as cities go, as with most things, you get what you pay for.

I picked up my rental car at the airport and got stuck on the slowest line for a rental car ever. It took a good half-hour to get the car, because there was only one person behind the main counter and about seven buzzing around the gold club member counter. Bad Hertz. I was very happy to get a spanking new gas/electric hybrid Toyota Prius as my rental, however, even if it took me 10 minutes to figure out how to start the damn thing. It doesn't have a proper key, just a clicker thing that you stick in a slot and a power button. It also has a touch screen LCD monitor that controls things like climate and stereo functions and also displays your gas mileage up to the very second! It also turned my attention away from more boring tasks like driving. Honestly, I don't know how I didn't get into an accident seeing as I really didn't know where I was going and spent most of my time watching the monitor instead of the road. But, fuck! I was pushing 100 miles per gallon there! And I averaged over 46 for the entire trip! And, it only cost me $4 to fill the thing up when I had to return it. I kept hearing that these cars were kinda nutless when it came to speed and power, and yeah, it wasn't a Corvette, but it moved well enough--I got it well over 70mph--so I was happy.

I met up with a friend, P, an ex-coworker, at his home in Pacific Beach, where I would be staying the next couple days, and we almost immediately biked out for drinks. It felt weird being on a bicycle, but it's really true that you never forget how to ride one of those things. I did forget how tough it was to ride one of them uphill, though. We ended up at a bar called La Haina, which was basically on the beach, and watched the activity of the boardwalk and the Pacific Ocean with beers in hand while sitting on the patio.

The parade of fine featured people was endless. Every woman had a dog and every dude had a skateboard or surfboard. I was clearly the ugliest person in the San Diego area, but hoped that this novelty would work well with the local women. It didn't--I'll get to that later--but it was a nice thought. I watched people surf for the first time, even though I've been in California for four years, and even spotted a pod of dolphins.

We drank our beers and I enjoyed the relative darkness caused by the damp marine layer. Since my friend had bought the first round, I got up to get the second. He said he wanted whiskey coke, and beer was quickly abandoned for the rest of the evening.

Right before nightfall, La Haina called last call, and we hopped back on the bikes to maneuver past more beautiful boardwalk denizens to the next watering hole, the dubiously named Thruster's. Turned out that some local surf shop was running a promotion there that night. They brought along some really crappy live music, a prize wheel and a raffle for a custom-made surfboard. P, now rediscovering his SoCal roots, had turned back to surfing, and since we were waiting for his girlfriend to meet us there after work, we decided to stick around for a while and order some more drinks from the friendly and beautiful punk rock girl bartender.

We were well-medicated when his girlfriend (L) showed up. Eventually, beautiful punk rock girl bartender finished her shift to make way for angry bartender dude, who was very not friendly, or maybe we were just beligerent. We also decided to buy some raffle tickets. I bought six for five bucks, P bought six for five bucks, and L, who always had good luck in such things, bought one.

She must have too, because we all walked away winners. P won his surfboard (the winning ticket came from his batch), L won a pair of pink sandles and I walked away with the shirt pictured to the left. The Shirt, as it has become known, is perhaps for me the most unfitting piece of apparel ever made. It's a tank top for one, a surfing-themed one at that (I don't even know how to swim and the idea of paddling out into the ocean on what amounts to a fiberglass popsicle stick scares me more than I can say), and if you can't make out what's going on, it depicts Jesus Christ catching waves and reads "Jesus Died So We Can Ride," which I believe was taken from the second letter of Paul to the Corinthians, but I could be wrong. Of course, I love The Shirt immensely, and I'm wearing it right now with pride. I think this was only the second time I've ever won anything. I might have to frame it or something.

Figuring that Thruster's had given us all we could possibly hope for, we decided to drunkenly bicycle away to yet another bar where I was greeted by some crazy dude who told me that I was about to enter the mothership or something like that. He then came downstairs and started talking to us about how some cab driver had stolen $370 from him and how he was going to find this thief and get retribution. We cheered him on, of course, because he was really pissed, and drunk, and we were winners...anddrunk, too.

i think i'm in for the long haul, so please bear with me...

Dear, Anna.

Uh. Hi.

Uh.

I'm glad this week's Average Joe didn't have any Metal Gear Solid moments. This episode was for reals. I could feel the tension between evil Monkeyman and well-meaning, but obviously unsettling, Dante. I was kinda sad to see Dante go, but really, it was easy to see he wasn't your type.

But I totally felt the tears. We were all upset, clearly, to see such a valued member of the family left behind and subjected to the extreme makeover (did you know about those?). He knew it was his time. He said, "It's me," and you were all waterworks.

It was harsh, yo. That could have been the booze talking, but after all that had just transpired--dodge ball, the wrestling match, the vicious, figurative slap in the face at the sloppy joe eating contest (I haven't had one of those in years!). Well, it was really too much to take.

Also, though, I have to say. The outfits? The sexy school girl look, the sexy referee look and, most of all, the sexy lunch lady look (I didn't know such a thing existed) were really too much. Let me break it down. Here I am, 28, single, clearly too gushy and emo for my own good, just off work, an empty stomach and my veins coursing with a stiff Bacardi and coke. It's not enough that you're armed with the thousand-watt smile, the sweet and earnest demeanor and the devastating look. It's not enough that you say things like "nice bodies don't mean nice individuals," with such conviction that you might actually mean it. No. Now you're also exhibiting all these qualities in form-fitted fetish-wear. Tell your producers/directors/network people that I said they could go fuck themselves.

And tell them I said, "Thank you."

Yours (call me),

j.

i normally wouldn't do this, but...

Chances are, if you're reading this, you can get a pretty good idea of who I am. I used to get these questionaire e-mails from my friends with questions like "What's your favorite smell?" but really, if any of them wanted to know such a thing (and I'm not sure why they would) they could've just asked me. They didn't have to waste my time (and theirs) with some formulaic profile e-mail.

And if you're curious, my favorite smell is a toss up between fresh-baked bread and fabric softener.

So, I don't do memes, because this blog is basically a meme, albeit an extremely disorganized one. However, I was asked nicely, and this one seems more open to interpretation than most rather than asking questions like "Are you a dog person or a cat person?" (I prefer dogs.)

10 years ago: I was an unfortunately arty fellow still reeling from the suicide of Kurt Cobain and I'd just started smoking weed, which made me even more unfortunately arty. I'm sure I had it in my head that I was going to be a big writer or something equally as pretentious. I played guitar a lot, too. I even took lessons. I was never particularly good, but I wasn't particularly bad, either. I did my best not to let anyone hear me play. I smoked cigarettes, stayed up all night and couldn't believe that I was starting college and hadn't even published my first novel yet. And there was a girl who treated me like shit. And I thought I loved her.

5 years ago: I'd finally almost graduated college and working at a comic book store. I was, like, 23 and I was neither married nor a published novelist. I only had two years before my self-imposed deadline for doing either or both was up and I would have to join a monastery. I watched a lot of TV, especially late at night; spent way too much time on the Internet; smoked a lot of cigarettes; and unfortunately close to ending my very comforting relationship with marjuana.

one year ago: Marijuana and cigarettes have been replaced by ample quantities of alcohol. After five years at the comic book store, and neither a novelist, husband nor monk, I'd since moved from the city I thought I'd live and die in (I'm still going to die there) to a ridiculously cozy and friendly college town in California. Here, I became a graduate school dropout and a published music/entertainment writer and eventually a full-time editor. I still write, too. And I got to sit on a couch with Rilo Kiley's Jenny Lewis. We both had a beer. Hers had a lemon in it. I even made her laugh once. I put that as one of my life's highlights, and while that might not seem like much, considering I'm actually getting paid to do what I love to do and getting to write about things I genuinely love, I'm not complaining.

yesterday: I saw a really bad B-movie and drank a beer with some friends. I worked real late, too. And had really good won ton soup from my favorite Chinese restaurant.

today: I worked late and had a rum and coke while watching Average Joe. Afterwards, I went to a bar with my roommate and our landlord. We got pretty drunk. I'll write more about that later.

tomorrow: I'm taking a flight down to San Diego because I have to go to the Comic-Con, interview a band and go to a concert (all for work so I don't have to pay), but I don't have to do all that till Thursday. With any luck, by afternoon tomorrow, I'll be drinking a beer on a beach in Mexico. Just like one of those Corona commercials. That sounds really nice.

Uh...I think that's enough. I'm getting lazy and my buzz is wearing off. Plus, I'd planned to write a letter to Anna.

less than zero

I'm sure there are more than a few man-boys my age who experienced their first odd tingly feeling thanks to the smoky-eyed, wild-haired guitarist/vocalist of the Bangles, Susanna Hoffs.

But this isn't about Susanna, really. Just kinda. The Bangles weren't just eye candy, though that was a big part of their thing, I guess, they also put out some pretty damn good pop songs for their day. One such hit was "Hazy Shade of Winter," which wasn't their song, but far superior to the original, and the song used as the de facto theme of the late-80s cocaine-fueled, Me Decade lifestyle pic Less Than Zero, which featured Robert Downey Jr. in his most prophetic role as a drug addict and Andrew McCartney playing the same rich-boy prick who, no, totally cares, like he did in every goddamn movie.

The world has gotten older and wiser, but Susanna Hoffs is still a knockout and rich people still like to party like they don't have a care in the world--because they don't. This weekend, I found myself in a home on the outskirts of town, in a detached cul de sac with a view of the foothills, far removed from the hustle-less bustle of Downtown Collegetown. I was invited by the party's queen bee, who works at my office, and congregated with the rest of the office folks who'd straggled there to shower themselves in free booze and high living.

The party was populated by all the town bigwigs--business men and women, their trophy wives and husbands and an assortment of golddiggers both male and female. I saw 40-year-old women with three year old tits, refurbished asses and impossible, line-less tans.

It was like nothing I'd seen before. Some of these people had to be grandparents, or at least creepy uncles, juiced to the gills on mixed drinks and Jell-O shots, talking about golf courses, vacation homes and property values.

So I drank heavily and stuck with my coworkers. I started with a beer and a Jell-O shot at 5pm, and by the end of the night (2am), I'd ingested so much sugar-laced alcohol, I was transformed into Screaming Mad Drunk-ass J, who only comes out for special occasions. I hate him, because he talks a lot, but people seem to get a kick out of the over-exuberant, vaguely huggy bastard. I don't realize he'd made an appearance until the following day when I hear things like "You were having a good time last night." I usually respond with a groan, but to date, I haven't done anything to completely embarass myself. Though, I guess waving happily at the elfishly cute and heavily blue eyeshadowed blonde bartender whenever I wanted a drink was a bit much. Well it would've been if I wasn't such a charming bastard.

Hehe.

At 2am, I embarked on an arduous task of trying to get home, which, though only required calling a cab, wasn't as easy as it sounds. I called the cab and suddenly there was a party of nine or so all looking to come along, which was good seeing as I was in Buttfuck Nowhere and only had ten bucks in my pocket. The crew was entirely made up of coworkers who were just as, if not more so, hammered than I was and some creepy guy named Richard who seemed to emerge from the party. He was the first to get dropped off, and the bastard only left us with three bucks. Things always stay the same, even though they got us drunk, the rich still managed to stiff the poor.

fish eggs pop like bubble wrap

With almost everyone at Warped Tour, we had a skeleton crew at the office. It was nice because I was abel to get a lot of work done. I think I did, anyway, in between the usual bouts of goofing off. The few of us who stayed on to work went out to lunch at a sushi bar. The food was really good, and after eating the better part of three or four different rolls and a couple slabs of unagi, topped off with a mug of Sapporo, I was pretty much ready for a long nap.

Unfortunately, that was not to be, but I did get to try fish roe (flying fish, I think) for the first time, and was rather suprised by the tastelessness. It was the texture, oddly enough, that I enjoyed the most--tiny, crackly compressed bubbles of air that popped between my molars. The got stuck in the crevices of my mouth. Occasionally, one would venture down from these hidden oral cavities while I was housing another morsel of sushi goodness, which was a pleasant surprise. More foods should pop like that. It makes things interesting.

Back at the office, I spent most of the day following up on things. I had a lot of things to follow up on. It feels like i'm always following up on something. I spend all day following. Follow, follow, follow. If it sounds monotonous, that's because it is. It's hard to explain my job to people. Sometimes it's very interesting to me, and at times, very satisfying, but when I describe things I do to people outside the sphere of my workspace, I get a blank look followed by an indifferent glance and an inevitable, "you don't say," or something similarly disinterested. Though I'm a writer and an editor, very little of what I do is actually writing and editing. Phone calls, however, are extremely abundant.

I spent a majority of the day composing e-mails, jabbering on the phone with writers, artists and publicists and typing at people on instant messenger. I did a lot of editing too, as we're back against a deadline.

It took me a little while to realize that I was completely unorganized. I really have no idea what I'm doing. I just kinda do it, and I haven't fucked up bad enough yet for anyone to notice. I was talking to a coworker, who sometimes works from home and has a ton of experience in this industry, how he's able to stay on top of things, and he gave me a few pointers. I really want to be good at this. I take a lot of pride--probably too much--in everything I do. I hate feeling like I'm underachieving. I probably shouldn't fuss over my fantasy team too much. I probably should make lists, and set goals, but all these things seem like a lot more work to pile on all the stuff I already do.

I head over to a local bar after work. I hadn't really planned on going out, and the place was completely empty--just me, the bartender, some couple and this dude I don't know but always talks my ear off because he knows a friend of mine. I always hope he doesn't recognize me. I kept focused on ESPN and didn't look in his direction. He was wrapped up in some inane political conversation with the couple, and I polished my rum and coke fast enough to get out of there without an incident. I hurried home for a beer, another rum and coke and a couple slices of watermelon. I realized while sitting on the couch that I got to get my shit together and stop being so goofy and just be a responisible organized adult.

While I don't think that will ever happen, I will put the fantasy baseball down for a while. At work anyway.

the great outdoors

I blame my roommate for my somewhat ruddier complexion. She does a lot of outdoor things. I tag along, because that's what I do. I rarely turn down invitations to do anything. I like being invited. The past two Wednesdays, after work, I've spent the early evening hours at the neighborhood park watching my roommate play in her recreational soccer league. I sit in the shade, on a grassy knoll in between the soccer and softball fields and alternate between watching the two different sports as the women run around and get sweaty. It's not a bad gig. They're not very competitive and they don't care about winning and losing, so it's nice and relaxing. I give lazy claps and cheer them on in a quiet manner. Afterwards, we head over to a bar, and I knock back a few rum and cokes and talk about the game.

This evening, the team ran into what seemed to be a squad of hired professionals. These women were young and fast, and I was tired just watching them. My roommate's team got trounced, but they didn't seem to care. It looked like a lot of fun. I missed being as active as I was when I was younger. But then I remembered the last time I played basketball, a half-court game in the parking lot of my old apartment complex. Unlike the women on my roommate's team, I am, for better or worse, extremely competitive. Unfortunately, my body can't keep up with my will to win, and I often end up hurting myself or looking really foolish. During the basketball game I mentioned, a brick rattled off the rim and bounced on the asphalt rather far from me, but I was still the one closest to the ball. I ran after it in the blazing summer sun. I'd been playing hard for about 15 minutes, which isn't really a long time, but I wasn't used to the exertion. I darted after that ball like it meant my life or a league championship. I don't remember the exact moment it happened, but I do remember running as hard as I could, and at some point, I lost control of my legs entirely. They lost their rigidity and decided to give up. They didn't bother to tell my torso, though, because it continued to push forward, even as I toppled to the ground. I reached out for the ball, but got two arms full of parking lot instead.

It wasn't one of my finer moments, but I stayed in the game even though my arms, legs and chest were scraped and ringing, because I had somethings to prove--that I'm stubborn and far from athletic.

do i have to go out and play?

Fourth of July weekend treated me very well. I celebrated the holiday with ample amounts of beer and food--I even had breakfast--I saw some fireworks, went down to a river, played fetch with a dog. It was a good day, even though large amounts of sunlight aren't agreeable with me. I don't burn much, if ever, but being out in the sun all day inevitably leads to me getting a headache. Sun block always ends up getting in my eyes, and I can't shake the smell of it for the rest of the day. I'm also not fond of the outdoor grime that gets on me when I'm enjoying a safe and sound portion of wilderness. But nature is beautiful and all that. I'd just rather experience it from inside a hermetically sealed bubble.

Regardless, I showed up to work today extremely relaxed. Even when two problems arose soon after I sat down to begin the work day, I didn't get all stressed. Well, just a bit, but it went away. Maybe wading in that river did me some good.

Whether it did or not, I'll be happy to stick to more claustrophobic forms of entertainment, away from the bugs, dirt and thistle. I was able to catch Batman Begins over the weekend, in the comfort of an air-conditioned theater, and was extremely entertained, even though Katie Holmes played a major role. They really did a good job of establishing themes and developing them through the course of the movie, and Christian Bale, who went from a frail skeleton in The Machinist to a much beefier action hero in this film, was really convincing as Batman and Bruce Wayne. I can't wait for the second one--I'm assuming there will be one--and I hope they're able to bring back Gary Oldman, Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine and Bale, though that may be too much to ask. Thank you, Chris Nolan for saving Batman from the evil day-glo clutches of Joel Schumacher.

As today meant resuming normal indoor activities, I spent most of the evening glued in front of the television. The first order of business was to watch Average Joe,because I heard from a reliable source that the new dream woman was in fact dreamy.

This season's crop of Average Joes seem to teeter on the ugly side of Joe-dom and are prone to wild fits of volcanic insecurity. I can't say that I blame them, though, as the "prize" the winner will take home is an impeccably tanned, red-headed and dreamy Poland-born model with a big gushy heart of gold.

Though I've only seen one episode, it's clear that Anna Chudoba is the kind of woman who could make me forget all about my fantasy baseball team. At least while she was around. She's sassy, friendly, smart, sexy, probably too nice for her own good and speaks at least two languages. Consequently, she's enough to make me watch an entire season of this crap.

She's also able to deliver this look. It's kinda hard to explain, but it's devastating, and when she blasted one of her Average Joe-puppies (Arthur) with it, you could see him turn into a mass of human-flavored Jell-O. I was proud of him, though, because he was able to keep his cool, whereas I probably would have soiled myself.

Anna likes the Joes. That's apparent. Even the balding nappy haired man with the scary teeth. Anna buddies up with all of them like they're good friends. She gets choked up when she has to eliminate the poor schlubs who she didn't make some kind of connection with. This episode was filled with heartwarming goodness as Anna got to meet and snuggle one of the descendents of the great orca Shamu, fulfill a lifelong dream of swimming with dolphins and share some sweet intimate moments with a few of the hapless contestants and laugh and hug them and stuff. Intercut with all this were shots of the chisled not-so Average Joes who were sent in a fleet of sporty red convertables to interecept Anna and co. on the Queen Mary in Long Beach, CA. Talking heads of dudes stammering their wide-eyed affection for Anna were spliced together with shots of the invading "hunks" flexing, driving across the desert in their sports cars--which looked really, really lame--and snorting brutish threats about how they were going to swoop in and steal Anna away from the sweaty-palmed clutches of the hapless Joes.

It was pretty nauseating, especially when the hunky dudes went all Metal Gear Solid and infiltrated the elimination ceremony via inflatable raft and stood toe-to-toe with the Joes in a display of grunting dominance, stopping just short of peeing on Anna to mark their turf, which would have been appropriate, but I guess that's why I watch these shows. ...For the cheap dramatics, not the urination.

in which two of my rock n' roll heroes decide to pay a visit

I dreamt that I was returning home to New York City on some kind of business. I can't remember what exactly I was there to do. But instead of being picked up at the airport by my parents, like I usually am, I was met by Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. I'm not sure why they were there. I had this dream two days ago, so it's a bit foggy, but I was just unintentionally reminded of it now.

The three of us were supposed to do something in the city, but first, they had to drive me home to Staten Island to see my family--my mother's side--who were gathered at my grandmother's house. I think it was the day before Christmas, and I was going to see everyone the next day anyway, but they still wanted me to drop by so they knew that I got in okay.

I suppose in this dream reality, Kim, Thurston and I went way back. And I guess, in a sense, we do, because I have been listening to their music for a very long time now. They're not always in my CD rotation, but I do always come back to them. But even though we went way back in the dream, we weren't really more than just good acquaintences.

At my grandmother's house was a handful of aunts and uncles and my mother, and my grandmother must have been there somewhere, but I don't remember seeing her. We were all in the kitchen at one point, and I remember feeling a little uncomfortable about having two underground rock heroes mingling with my decidedly not underground rock family, most of whom are well into their 60s and beyond. But other than a few awkward moments, things seemed to be okay. Kim seemed to be adjusting to my family better than Thurston, who always seemed aloof and difficult to me in interviews.

I did my best to keep the meeting brief. I was to see my family the next day anyway, and since I hadn't seen Kim and Thurston in a while, I really wanted to get going and spend some time with them. Then, as I announced I had to use the bathroom before we left, someone said something that must have rubbed Thurston the wrong way, because he retorted with a statement that could have been taken as insulting, though I wasn't sure if it was, if he meant it or if he was just joking around. I moved quickly into the bathroom to take a rather long piss and wondered if the members of Sonic Youth would be waiting for me when I was finished.

[Photos by Stefano Giovannini]

three day binge

After we did some shooting for the movie, I came home to check on my part time canine roommate. He was fine, though his momma is out of town, and instantly wanted to play ball. He's a terrible catcher, but he's tenacious, and even though his paws are poorly suited for the tile in the kitchen, he surely gives it his all when tracking down a thrown tennis ball.

I watched some Skinemax softcore porn in the living room--a luxury when home alone--and debated whether I wanted to go out or not. I decided that there was no reason to stay home. I hadn't been to the local watering hole in almost a month, and though past midnight, the temperature here was still warmer than most places get in the middle of the day. It's not great for sleeping, but it's fine if you want to wear shorts and a T-shirt into the wee hours of the morning.

the local watering hole was something of a ghost town. There's just nobody around here on Fourth of July weekend, except for the handful of local dignitaries who never, ever leave. I played catch up with the people at the bar, who'd no doubt been bar hopping a good portion of the night, and started off with a pint of rum and coke. After that was polished off, I followed with a second, more portable version of the same drink, and exited as the lights came on. Since I'd decided to drink my dinner tonight, I ventured next door to the worst pizza place in the universe to grab a bland, bready pepperoni slice to sponge up some of the excess alcohol and fuel my journey home.

It would have been an uneventful one, but, since I live in one of the de facto ghettos of town, I must pass two liquor stores on the way. One, I believe, functions on California bar time, which means that it closes before 2am. All sale of alcohol ceases at 2am in the state of California, but since bars operate some 15 to 30 minutes ahead of real time, they stop serving you well before the 2am cut off. Depending on where you are, this doesn't leave you much time to find a store to purchase a night cap to drink in the comfort of your own home. The local watering hole has staked its reputation on being one of the last bars to close downtown--no earlier than a quarter to 2am.

I hadn't planned on buying another drink, but when I saw the liquor mecca on the corner of the state highway and Main Street, I just couldn't resist, which is why I type this now with a brown-bagged bottle of Stone Ruination beside me. I'm sure this stuff can make me go blind.

But my liver has had plenty of rest lately. I'm not as squirrely in my older age. I don't have the desire to go out every night any more. Maybe a beer before bed, basking in the glow of the television--that's enough to do the trick. But I still have two years of my 20s to burn off, so I might as well make the most of them, and I don't have to think of being responisble again until Tuesday.